On the Other Side
by persaphone
Summary: Master POV oneshot. Introspection-y thingy on our favourite Time Lord's guilt complex. The Doctor wants something the Master cannot give. [D/M]


It's post-Christmas again, when the snow falls too thickly without meaning and the shop window decorations immediately tinge with pale bleakness, and the red and gold seasonal ornaments now stripped of their purpose are laid out in massive, belated must-go sales. It's post-Christmas when there isn't much to do, to ooh-and-ah over, nothing to spend effort over, nothing to look forward to. New Year's Day doesn't count, to them, time is everytime, everywhere.

It's also the time when the Doctor falls into a relapse of intense reminiscing, and not of the nostalgic variety. The door slam rings in his ears; a few minutes ago he had rushed angrily and desperately into a room, any room, tears brimming at his eyes, and locked the door with such hurried ferocity that the Master knew now was not the time to disturb him. Kind of a cop-out, really. The Master seizes the opportunities he sees when the Doctor is _that_ eager to rush into a bedroom, but unfortunately it seems like trespassing would translate into a rage-filled, self-pitying tirade on his behalf. Patience must prevail.

It ranges from this to that. On minor days it is the loss of his human admirers, their pretty smiles and sparkling eyes burned fresh into his mind, tormenting his poor soul with their innocent, trivial chatter and tinkling laughter. He knows it hurts him because on those days a mention of any of their names will cause a shutdown, an immediate electric recoil. On worse days (he likes to think of them as days of repentance) he will see the Doctor crouched silently in an innocuous corner, form still save for his psychic screams which penetrate every fibre of the Master's mind. If the Master cared so much, it wasn't one ounce for the Doctor's choking guilt but for the sheer overwhelming blast of pain that swallows his head. If only he would keep his mourning to himself - how rude of him to drag other people into his suffering. The Master knows this because he does feel something too. He might never verbalise it, but it sits in his hearts; every time the Doctor weeps for Gallifrey, he yearns too for his dead home.

He doesn't let it show, not to the Doctor. He should understand it sufficiently without being told. Anyway, it seems he has plenty on his conscience to reconcile at the moment, and he will leave him be, just this time. It will become a ritual over time, that of which they have too much. The Doctor will just have to learn how to release his feelings in a controlled environment, mechanically and routinely, in such a way that it will not affect the already delicate equilibrium of mutual cohabitation they've established here on the TARDIS, since the Doctor of all people should recognise the difficulty of restoring something as fragile as that.

The pounding against the door tells the Master the Doctor is likely having one of his Very Bad Days, in which he rants and raves heartbrokenly about his situationally-necessitated genocide and all the cruel, cruel things he did to his own people. When he does start to sob (the Master checks his watch, should only be about five minutes from now) he will curl up into a ball, as if to block the rest of the world from coming in, and cave in from the weight of his misdeeds, the murders he was forced to commit, with not a being to comfort him. Not that the Master cares, not ever. That is what he tells himself when he is drawn inexplicably to the sound of his crying, a paperclip to a magnet, one ear pressed against its wooden surface and listening, just listening, to the Doctor's emotions. He would be lying if he said there wasn't a change in the pace of his heartbeats when he sat there.

He sits there for a very long time, listening to the Doctor's sobbing steady, hysterics slowing as his energy drops, to breaks of muffled whimpering and tearful sniffling, on the other side of the door. In his mind the sound would be almost beautiful, like the rhythmic flowing of water down the weathered riverbed of his cheeks, but the context hurts, it _hurts_ sometimes, knowing each fallen teardrop falls for the death of a more beautiful red planet which holds the memories of both Time Lords on either side of the door. That triggers another emotion, a familiar stirring in his hearts, so recognisable it is almost welcome - anger.

_Selfish bastard, does he even think what consequences his actions have on others?_

He thinks he is going to punch the door blindly until his knuckles tear.

It flies out like barely contained panic, a madness indiscreet that envelops him in the past, when the drums were his constant companion. This feels easy. This feels right. He should revert back to the chaos in his mind, to do its bidding and avenge all who had ever wronged him. As he allows the feelings of pity and self-righteousness swell in his chest it clicks into place, like a well-oiled machine; that he is meant to destroy, shatter the man on the other side of the door like untempered glass, like he used to dream of doing. He considers the thought, turns it over in his mind. It is tempting. With the Doctor so beaten and vulnerable on the other side it will be a piece of cake to accomplish just that, to have the trophy of his bleeding hearts clenched tight in his hands and his soul under his heels. It feels easy. It feels right. But it also feels like something else when he feels again the Doctor's sorrow pulse heavily through their telepathic link, embittered and raw, and the rightness turns to dust.

So he sits there for a very long time. He can try to bring himself to reignite that fury, to lash out at the Doctor, but he won't, with only a singular heart on fire. He stills himself and listens for the tell-tale signs of his recovery, the scuffle of his Converse against the paneling as he pushes himself upright and the wiping of eyes with damp shirtsleeves. He hears silence punctuated by whispers, agonised and reeking of hopelessness, the utter stench of it drifting through the door, and is nearly repelled. The Doctor is muttering "I'm sorry" and "I am useless" and "I deserve every bit" and "don't forgive me" over and over again under his breath in ragged and tortured tones as he lays out his sins like scars before the world, head bowed in blistering shame. It is with some surprise that the Master doesn't nod and voice agreement, because the last one really gets him in the gut.

He sits there some more. His ears are attuned to every plea, like a withered piece of his body given up to the vultures. Every whispered apology is another battle given up and left unfought. The idea chills him to the bones; if the Doctor does not win wars and save planets, the Master has no reason to destruct, to set civilisations aflame. The Doctor builds for the Master to break, he creates disorder for the Doctor to heal. They are a push-and-pull mechanism, running on an insatiable urge to always outdo and impress and attract the other; they are an endless march of tide and time that complements the other in a complicated tango. He thinks about it some more. Without his _yin_ he will surely deflate and spin out of orbit, out of the gravitational pull that has allowed them to become besotted with each other, into the vast insignificance of space where little starlight has ever reached before. The Doctor wants something he cannot give. He wants to fall down and stay bruised in the dust. He wants to brush away the hand offered to him to bring him back to safety because he believes he deserves to remain off the ledge and in hell. The Master cannot give him many things; like the satisfaction of a well executed plan well foiled and the admittance of his feelings about him, but most of all he cannot give him "don't forgive me".

So it is for his own sake as well that the Master does just the opposite, a small rift closing between his hearts.


End file.
